Four Minus Zero

>*CRASH*
>Oh, no, not again…
>“Altair! What have you done?”
>You’re the owner of a fluffy pony. It seemed a good idea at first, having a pet you could actually talk with, but right now…
>Altair runs into the kitchen, a big smile on his little muzzle. He’s a bright yellow pegasus with a shiny red mane, and the small wings on his back are always buzzing like those of a hummingbird, especially when he’s having fan. “Wha’ dahdeh wan? Pway? Pway wif Awtaiw?”, he exclaims, wagging his stubby tail and jumping up and down.
>You respond in your sternest voice. “I don’t play with bad fluffies. Did you just break something? Again?”. It’s the fourth time this week, for God’s sake!
>The smile on his muzzle fades, but just a bit. “Awtaiw pway bumpy game wiff dahdeh cup! An’ dahdeh cup wose!”.
>You sigh. He kicked your favourite coffee mug off the small table in the living room, shattering it to pieces. And technically it’s your fault, because you left the cup there, knowing well this could’ve happened. But still…
>“What did I tell you about the bumpy game, Altair?”, you scold him. “If you don’t stop breaking daddy’s things, I’ll have to use the sorry stick on you!”.
>He lowers his ears, but doesn’t seem as scared as you hoped he would have been, maybe because you’ve never actually used the sorry stick on him since you brought him home a couple months ago. “B-bu’ bumpy game funneh! Awtaiw wike pway bumpy game!”. And before you can reply, he has trotted to the living room. You follow him suit, fearing that he might hurt his delicate hooves on the pieces of your coffee mug, but you find him bouncing happily on your sofa while trying to push the TV remote control on the ground. “Awtaiw wike bouncy-bouncy!” he babbles joyfully.
>He doesn’t do the things he does out of malice, you know that: very few domestic fluffies can actually go against their programming and be downright mean to a human.
>He’s just a troublemaker. He still loves you with all his little fluffy heart, he loves cuddling with you, having his belly rubbed and cooing while you scratch him behind his ears.
>If only he weren’t so damn exuberant and hyperactive…
>A couple of weeks ago, you actually considered having him amputated. But it’s a costly procedure, and it would scar him for life, both physically and psychologically.
>You look down: Altair is not jumping on the sofa anymore. A couple of seconds later, you hear something smashing and a high-pitched, ecstatic laughter coming from the bathroom. You can say goodbye to your soap dish.
>You shake your head. You have to do something. And you have to do it really soon.

>“…wha’…  yawn… W-whev’ Awtaiw?”. You fluffy has finally woken up. After some seconds, he seems to realize he cannot move, because you tied him to the kitchen table. The only thing he can do is wiggle his stubby legs in the air, screaming at the top of his tiny lungs. “DAHDEH, AWTAIW SCAWED! NO CAN MOVE! PWEASE DAHDEH, COME HEWP!”.
>You suddenly enter in his field of vision, blowing him a raspberry to shut him up. You’re wearing a crudely cut out cardboard mask, so he can’t recognize you. “You’ve been a really, really bad fluffy!”, you growl, pointing an index finger at him.
>He soils himself in fear… Well, at least he tries: you squeezed him over the litterbox before tying him on the table, after all. The sleeping pill you put inside yesterday’s spaghetti was pretty strong. >“N-NUUUUU! WHY DAHDEH NO HEWP? MUNSTA WAN’ GIF OWWIES TO AWTAIW! PWEASE DAHDEH, HEWP AWTAIW! AWTAIW NO MAKE BUMPY GAME NO MO’!”.
>Sorry, buddy, but it’s a little too late now.
>“You’re a really bad fluffy”, you repeat. “And bad fluffies must be punished!”. You pull a knife out of your pocket. An old knife that probably wouldn’t cut even butter, to be exact.
>Altair, not knowing this, flips his shit. “NUUUUUUUU! NO WAN’ SHAWPY HUWTIES! WAAAAAAAAH! DAHDEH PWEASE HEWP!”
>“Shut up!”, you roar. You then proceed to punish him… well, to move the knife in the general direction of his lower body, in a way he can’t actually see what you’re doing. This doesn’t stop the screaming, obviously.
>“DAHDEH, MUNSTA HUWT AWTAIR! MUNSTA GIF WEGGIES BIG HUWTIES! NUU-HUU-HUU, WHY DAHDEH NO COME TO AWTAIW?”.
>Oh, come on, I’m not even touching you!, you can’t help thinking. You pull out a yellow plastic cap from your other pocket: it’s roughly the same size of a fluffy hoof. “Here! I cut one of your leg! Now you’ll have to live with just…”. Dramatic pause. You nearly burst laughing. “…four hooves!”.
>“NUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!”, Altair screams.
>After some seconds, you reappear in his field of view, having discarded your mask. “What happened, Altair”, you ask, feigning obliviousness, while untying him.
>The first thing he does after you’ve freed him is hugging your chest as tightly as he can, while bawling his eyes out. “Why dahdeh no hewp Awtaiw? Awtaiw sorry, no be bad fwuffy neva’ again! Waaaaaaaaaaaaah! Why weggie haf go away?”.
>You shush him, patting him gently on his back. His wings are flapping frantically. “Don’t worry, buddy… Everything’s alright, now. Daddy’s here with you”. You grin: maybe he has learned his lesson, now.
>After a long consolatory hug, you lower the fluffy on the floor. When he sees he’s still able to walk and run as usual, he’ll understand nothing bad happened, you think, looking at Altair taking a small, hesitant step… Before sliding sideways and landing on his belly, whimpering.
>Maybe his legs are just numb because of the ropes…, you think while helping the fluffy back on his hooves. This time Altair is able to take a couple of steps, before falling on the ground snout first. The pegasus just stays there, bawling his eyes out. “Waaaaaaaah! Awtaiw no can’ wun no mo’! No can’ pway no mo’! Awtaiw onwy haf fouw hoofsies now…”.
>In the next few days, you watch with increasing disbelief your once hyperactive, lively pegasus falling, tripping, sliding, bumping into literally everything and being generally as destructive as he was before the “operation”. The worst aspect of the new situation is that his constantly happy behaviour has been replaced by a whiny, gratingly weepy demeanour. “Sowwyyyyyyyyyyy!”, he starts crying after crashing into a potter plant for what is probably the fiftieth time in the last hour. “Awtaiw no mean to! Jus’ wan’ wun, wan pway! No wan’ faww, no wan’ huwties! Nuu-huu-huu!”.
>You shake you head. Altair is so deeply convinced he has lost a leg that his body is refusing to work properly, even if nothing has happened to him.
>As always, Fluffy’s Law – “anything that can go wrong to a fluffy, will go wrong” – fully applies to Altair’s case.
>A sleeping pill, some ropes and a cardboard mask later, you’re greeted with a screaming, terrified Altair once again. “NUUUUUUUU! NU MUNSTA NO MO’! AWTAIW GUD FWUFFY, NO WAN’ WOSE WEGGIES NO MO’!”.
>“I know you’ve been a good fluffy”, you reply. “That’s why I decided to give you your leg back!”, and you show him the bottle cap.
>“W-weawwy?”, he asks, still suspicious. “Munsta gif Awtaiw weggie back?”.
>You pretend to attach the bottle cap to the fluffy. “Here”, you tell him. “Now you have four hooves again!”.
>Altair’s obviously overjoyed. “Yay!”, he shouts, wriggling his stubby legs happily. “Awtaiw haf fouw weggies ‘gain! Awtaiw so happeh! Thankies, kind munsta!”.
>You untie him and put him back on the floor. “Be a good fluffy, okay?”.
>His only answer is a mischievous grin, before he shouts: “Wan’ pway bumpy game!” and darts towards the sofa. After a few seconds, you can hear you TV remote falling on the ground.
>You sigh, shedding your mask. Fluffies never win, sure… but sometimes even fluffy owners can lose too.